


Try Before You Buy

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Mystrade Prompt Challenge Oct 2018 [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bad Pick-Up Lines, Drinking & Talking, Gloves, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 08:59:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16472552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: For the Mystrade Prompt Challenge: Mycroft meets Greg in a bar and the conversation is not as he expected.





	Try Before You Buy

**Author's Note:**

> Your dialogue: "I beg your pardon?"
> 
> The circumstances...in a bar or pub
> 
> You must mention...a fountain pen and gloves

Friday night had never been so welcome, and the speed at which the office had emptied told Greg he was not the only one relieved to have the week finally done. With all the overtime his team had put in over the past ten days, nobody was expected back until Monday, and they’d bolted before another case could come in. He didn’t blame them. A few more signatures and he’d be out too; better to just finish this up so he’d have an empty desk on Monday morning.   
The novelty of it made Greg smile as he signed the last approval for overtime with a flourish. He sat back, stretching his neck out for a second before making like the rest of his team: he grabbed his stuff and heading for the pub.  
+++  
From the enthusiasm of his reception, he was a solid couple of pints behind the rest of the team. When he copped a bit for his tardiness Greg pointed out that he was approving their overtime; another cheer and a pint appeared in his hand.  
“Christ, you lot are pissed!” he exclaimed, drinking half the beer in one go, inspiring at least two DCs to race him. Another cheer, and thankfully someone else beat him, drawing attention from everyone and allowing Greg to find himself a seat. His fatigue and the beer combined to make him pleasantly buzzed and soft around the edges, and he let the flow of sound wash around him for a while.  
It wasn’t until someone dropped into the seat opposite that Greg understood someone was trying to make conversation.  
“I beg your pardon?” he said carefully, realising his empty pint had been replaced and he was perhaps more tired than he realised.  
Mycroft Holmes sat opposite him, tugging with exactitude at the tip of each finger of his gloves, drawing Greg’s attention as he drew them off his long fingers. It was mesmerising, the slow repetition, pinch-tug-pinch-tug. When Mycroft pointedly cleared his throat, Greg forced himself to look away, though he was acutely conscious of Mycroft’s gloves. They were placed in a precise pile beside his glass which to Greg’s surprise contained…  
“Is that a martini?”  
“It is,” Mycroft replied smoothly.  
Greg grinned to himself. “You have no idea how tempted I am to say…”  
“Shaken is my preference also,” Mycroft supplied with amusement.  
“No comment, I don’t want to get whisked away,” Greg said. “Too much paperwork.” When Mycroft raised one eyebrow, he explained, “I must have gone through a dozen ballpoints this week filling in forms.”  
“You should invest in a fountain pen,” Mycroft replied, sipping at his martini and making a pleased noise. “Smoother writing action, and you can refill the ink as necessary.”  
“I have no idea about fancy pens,” Greg said. “I’d have to get you to help me pick one.” Christ, he hoped Mycroft hadn’t noticed how flirty that had just sounded. Or perhaps he did. Or was that the beer talking?  
“I would be pleased to do so,” Mycroft replied. He hesitated. “I have quite a collection at my flat if you would prefer to try before you buy, as they say.”  
Greg felt his eyebrows rise at the definitely flirty tone. Recklessly, he blurted, “Well I’m done for the week, if you’re offering…”  
For a long beat they stared at each other.  
Mycroft had frozen, martini halfway to his lips. He looked shell shocked.  
Greg was wondering if he could possibly get away with pretending he was joking.   
He was about to force a smile to his face when Mycroft raised his martini and drained the glass in one.  
“I have a car outside.” The words were low but definite. An offer of…something. More than fountain pens, Greg thought.  
He swallowed hard, resisting the urge to down his own drink by pressing his fingers into the polished wood. Without a word he nodded.  
The next few minutes were a blur – standing to leave, taking a second to allow his head to right itself; the ghost of a hand in the small of his back as he navigated the tables, ignoring the whispers and calls of his colleagues. Suddenly he was sliding into the back of one of Mycroft’s black cars, leather seat cool against his palms.  
“Mycroft,” he murmured, turning to face the man now settled on the seat beside him.  
“Yes?”  
“Is this…” he swallowed. “What is this?”  
“Why Gregory,” Mycroft drawled, and there was no pretence now, the amusement glittering in his eyes with a darker edge of want want want. “I thought you wanted to see my fountain pen.”  
For a long slow second, Greg’s brain fought with itself, and then he burst out laughing. “Christ, Mycroft,” he gasped. “That’s the worst pun I’ve ever heard.”  
“To be clear,” Mycroft began, the same glint in his eyes, but Greg had heard enough.  
“Just get over here, you twat,” he said, tugging on Mycroft’s lapels, meeting him in the middle for a slightly off centre kiss.  
“I’m not sure I appreciate being called a ‘twat’,” Mycroft murmured when Greg pulled away enough to right his swirling head.  
“Affectionate term,” Greg replied distractedly.  
“Drunk term,” Mycroft retorted.  
“Yep,” Greg agreed. “Can’t use my brain for too much right now.”  
“Don’t worry,” Mycroft purred, “you won’t need it for what I have in mind.”


End file.
